Ginger | 15th September 2013
After the creative bushfire that was the Practical Musician recording session, how is damage assessment looking cap’n?
It was a bit of a whirlwind, to put it mildly (14 songs nailed, and only one song that looks unlikely to be finished if you want the album by Xmas – which you do), and now everyone is off curating their separate and individual realities, what of this place? Will folk still pop up here with tales from the outside, reminding us all that this community exists when no one is around falling in the woods, or some such metaphorical balderdash? I certainly hope so. If for no reason greater than I miss everyone and would like to know what they’re up to. Digits firmly twisted, eh?
So here goes.
I left the studio around 5pm, after nailing the final guitars and vocals needed, then floored it home to put my little boy to bed and grab some home time. A sleep in my own bed, fruit fly free, was a very welcome slice of bliss before being unceremoniously carted into a cab and sent to Manchester airport for the next mornings flight to Victoria, via Vancouver. Almost 10 hours in the air, in a seat so small I assumed my arse had inflated due to freakish cabin pressure. Once a generously sized Dad squeezed in next to me, armed with small, cute, potentially noisy-during-10-hours-of-cabin-pressure child, I figured things have been good to me recently. My conscience came resting on one thought: UPGRADE. And on checking my bank balance, and uttering the words “ah fuck it” under my breath, I was directed to my new seat next to a lady who subsequently complained about every service on offer, and a screaming baby, somewhere behind me, that seemed more genuinely distressed than uncomfortable. On rubbernecking the situation I was shocked to find the baby Mama comatose on the floor with an oxygen mask strapped to her face and Virgin staff filling up the modest isles in desperate search for a proper Doctor. I never knew there wasn’t a actual Doctor on board for every flight, as standard. This seems like an odd budgetary move being as a rush trip to A&E is unlikely at 50,000 ft.
So far so eventful. Nothing a few Bloody Mary’s can’t sort, and a good movie. Now I dunno if I’ve been traveling more recently than I had previously assumed, or that they’ve just been showing the same movies for the last three months but the only new film was Monsters University (which was incidentally fantastic) forcing me to load up my own hard drive of movies into my lap top and picking something random. The lady next to me was thrilled to have more fuel for disdain as an eavesdropped viewing of Cold Fish (2010) really gave cause for complaint, by which point the staff were firmly in my corner having shared tattoo stories and tales of the road, earning all the free drinks coming my way with simple decency and chat.
Eventually I land in Canada, only to miss my connecting flight due to the snaking great lines of travelers in immigration. Canadians being the ‘nicest people in the World’ (surely this is official?) I was planed, train’ed and automobile’d to my lovely hotel where I spent a lovely few hours chatting to our new monitor man Kyle, a friend to the stars and a genuinely nice fella. It’s an odd session when two men sit over burger n’ beer discussing their bosses. Mine, Courtney Love and his Miley Cyrus. It’s even greater when both iconic stars come out as hard working, no bullshit, 100% genuine gals. And so, with jet lag, fuzzy heads and not a negative word spat we head off in search of a decent night sleep.
The festival the next day is a thing of foreign beauty and wonder, namely due to Canadian sunshine and a festival set up that came off more like a village fete than a Glastonbury shit fest. Walking around during the day, testing the local dishes (Potein, oh man this dish would take over in UK if some smart Canuk got involved here) I can’t say I’ve ever met so many people generally offering sunny dispositions to anyone in orbit. It’s a genuine love fest that explodes into a full on LOVE fest as Courtney brings her A game to a packed and smiling audience. The band sounded amazing too, which after a month or so off isn’t awlyas to be assumed. The show is great fun. And even an early morning promise to be given the keys to the gold cart is honoured, as our dressing room lady hands them to me at around 11:00, once the park has emptied out. Me and our lovely teleprompter girl Betty go on the rampage, ultimately crashing the cart into a food stall. Remarkably, once the scaffolding and debris is carefully removed from the vehicle, the cart starts up first time. So with a hearty Bravo, and a lets-get-the-fuck-out-of-here we leave for a messy nite cap where I pop a Soma and wake up fully dressed, remembering that I’ve been enlisted to escort Courtney back to NYC. Eek.
The journey is far less terrifying than initially assumed as Courtney is awesome company, with comfortable yet mind boggling conversation that suggest her up coming book be one read with the lights on. Although I fail to see how you could read a book any other way.
This morning finds me woken and refreshed in NYC, ready to start a weeks writing with Ms Love and my English axeman in crime Mikko.
I’ll stop by and let you know how it’s all going in a day or two. In the meantime I hope the rest of the Ginger Wildheart Band chip in with their penneths worth’s at various points this coming week.
I give thanks for my life and my career. Thank you. Keep the faith and don’t touch that dial.